"YOU ARE MONSIEUR'S SON."
One lovely June afternoon Annette was sitting on the steps that led
down from the veranda at Grey-Mount House. She was alone, and looked
unusually pensive; indeed, there was a slight shade of melancholy
on her expressive face. Annette had just remembered that it was on
this very day last year that she had first seen monsieur. "A year
ago--actually it is a year," she said to herself, "since I left the Rue
St. Joseph! Oh, those days--how dark and narrow they seem beside my
life now!" And Annette shuddered involuntarily as she remembered the
close, dark room, the long, weary hours, the frugal, solitary meals,
when the tired lace mender had finished her work.
But the next moment the old street, with its curiously gabled houses,
vanished from her mental vision, and she took up a different thread of
musing. "What could she have said last night to offend Mr. Frank so
deeply? He had kept away from her all the evening, and this morning he
had gone off with only a hurried good-bye, and without waiting for his
button-hole bouquet, though it was all ready for him--the prettiest she
had ever made."
It was this remembrance that had been tormenting Annette all day, and
had spoiled the sunshine for her. She had left Louie and Nettie to
finish their game with Lottie, because she was playing so badly; and,
of course, that was Mr. Frank's fault, too.
Annette did so hate to hurt people; but, though she did not like to
confess it even to herself (for she was very loyal to her friends), Mr.
Frank had been so very touchy lately. He was always pulling her words
to pieces and grumbling over them, and he never seemed quite satisfied
with her. "I think I disappoint him terribly," she said to herself,
plaintively. "And yet what have I said?" And here Annette tried
painfully to recall her words. They had been talking very happily,
Frank had been giving her an account of a walking-tour, and somehow the
conversation had veered round to Dinan and monsieur. Perhaps he was a
little bored with her praises of monsieur, for he suddenly frowned (and
she had never seen him frown before), and said: "It is no use trying; I
may as well give it up. I don't believe any man has a chance with you;
you think of no one but my father."
"I think there is no man so good and wise as monsieur," she had
replied, very innocently; and then, to her dismay, Mr. Frank had looked
hurt, and became all at once quite silent.
"I do not understand young men," she said, as she laid her head on the
pillow; "they are strange--very strange. Mr. Frank looks as though I
had committed some crime. Friends ought not to quarrel for a word.
To-morrow I will make him ashamed of himself. His bouquet shall be
better than monsieur's."
Annette was quite happy as she prepared her little offering--she even
smiled as she laid it aside. She was sure Frank saw it, though he took
no notice; he always petitioned for one so humbly. But on this unlucky
day he went out of the breakfast-room without a word; he was in the
dog-cart beside his father as Annette crossed the hall, and his cold,
uncompromising "Good-morning, Miss Ramsay!" left her no opening. The
poor flowers were left to wither on the marble slab, and Annette, in
rather a melancholy mood, settled to her practicing; but her scales
were less perfect than usual. "What can it mean?" played the prelude to
every exercise and study.
Annette had laid aside her mourning; she was in white this evening,
and the cluster of dark roses at her throat suited her complexion
admirably. Her pretty little head, with its dark, smooth plaits, was
drooping slightly. Something in her attitude seemed to strike Frank as
he crossed the lawn on his way to the house; he looked, hesitated, then
looked again, and finally sauntered up to the veranda with a fine air
of indifference.
"Do you know where Louie is, Miss Ramsay?"
"She is playing tennis with Lottie. Oh, you are leaving me!" as Frank
nodded and turned away, and a distressed look crossed her face. "All
day I have wanted to speak to you, and now you will not listen! Mr.
Frank, I do not like my friends to be angry with me when I have done no
wrong--no wrong at all. It is not treating me well!" And Annette looked
at him with grave dignity.
Evidently, Frank had not expected this. He had been brooding over his
grievance all day--nursing it, magnifying it, until he believed that
he was greatly to be pitied. But this frankness on Annette's part cut
away the ground from beneath his feet. How could he explain to her the
manner in which she had hurt him? She was so unlike other girls--so
simple and child-like. Frank found himself embarrassed; he stammered
out something about a misunderstanding.
"A misunderstanding, surely, since I have been so unhappy as to offend
you," returned Annette, gently. "Mr. Frank, will you tell me what I
have done, that I may make amends? I have hurt you--well, that gives me
pain. I think there is no one for whom I care so much as--"
"Monsieur," finished Frank, gloomily, and there was quite a scowl on
his pleasant face. "Why don't you finish your speech, Miss Ramsay?
We all know what you think of monsieur!"--which was very rude of
Frank, only the poor fellow was too sore to measure his words. He was
angry with himself, with her, with every one. He could not make her
understand him; all these months he had been trying to win her, and
there had been no response on her part; but this frank kindliness--
Annette looked at him for a moment with wide-open, perplexed eyes. She
wished to comprehend his meaning.
"Well," she said, slowly, "and you are monsieur's son, are you not?"
Now what was there in this very ordinary speech--the mere statement of
an obvious fact--to make Frank suddenly leap to his feet and grasp her
hand?
"Do you mean that?" he exclaimed, eagerly. "Annette, do you really
mean that you can care for me as well as for him? Tell me, quickly,
dear! I have been trying so hard all these months to make you
understand me; but you never seemed to see."
"What is it you wish me to understand?" she said, shyly; for, with all
her simplicity, Annette could hardly mistake him now. "You quarrel with
me for a word, but you tell me nothing plainly. Is it that I am too
slow, or that you have not taken the trouble to instruct me?"
"Trouble! where you are concerned!" he said, tenderly. And then it all
came out--the story of his love, his patient wooing, his doubts if his
affection could be returned.
"You were always so sweet and friendly to me," he went on; "but I could
never be sure that you really cared for me--that you cared for me
enough to become my wife," finished the young man in a moved voice.
"You could not be sure until you asked me," returned Annette naïvely.
"There was no need to make yourself so miserable, or to have given me
this unhappy day."
"Have you been unhappy, too, my dearest?" but Frank looked supremely
happy as he spoke.
"Yes; for I could not bear that anything should come between us. So you
see, my friend, that, I too, have cared a good deal." But when Frank
wanted her to tell him how long she had cared--"Was it only yesterday,
or a week ago, or that day on which they had gone to the Albert Hall,
when I gave you the flowers?" and so on, Annette only blushed and said
she did not know.
"But surely you have some idea, my darling?"
"But why?" she answered, shyly. "Is it necessary to find out the
beginning of affection? Always you have been kind to me. You have made
me glad to see you. I have never separated you from monsieur since the
day we talked of him so much. 'This young man resembles his father--he
has the same kind heart:' that is what I said to myself that day"--and
Frank was too content with this statement to wish to question his
sweetheart more closely.
Mr. Harland was sitting in the study reading his paper, and talking
occasionally to Averil, who was in her hammock-chair beside him, when
a slim white figure glided between him and the sunshine, and Annette
stood before him.
"Well, mademoiselle," he said, playfully--for this was his pet name for
her--"what has become of the promised walk?"
"Oh, I have forgotten!" she said, with a little laugh; "and it is your
fault, Mr. Frank"--but she did not look at the young man as she spoke.
"Monsieur, you must forgive me, for I am not often so careless; and you
must not scold your son, either, because we are both so happy."
"Eh, what!" exclaimed Mr. Harland, dropping his eye-glasses in his
astonishment; for Frank actually, the young rogue, had taken Annette's
hand, and was presenting her to him in the most curiously formal way.
"Father, do you want another daughter?" asked Frank hurriedly. "I have
brought you one. The dearest girl in the world, as you have long known."
"I know nothing of the kind, sir," returned his father, in much anger.
"To think of your saying such a thing with Averil sitting by. The
dearest girl in the world--humph!"
"Monsieur knows that is not the truth," replied Annette, and her dark,
soft eyes were very pathetic. "Perhaps he is not willing to take the
poor little lace-mender for his daughter."
"Is he not?" was the unexpected reply. And Annette, to her delight and
astonishment, found herself folded in his arms. "My dear little girl,
I am more than willing! Monsieur is not such a conceited old humbug.
He knows what is good as well as other people; and he respects his
son"--here he grasped Frank's hand cordially--"for his choice; and he
begs to tell him, and every one else concerned, that he is a sensible
fellow." And here Mr. Harland marched away, using his handkerchief
rather loudly, to tell his wife the news.
"Dear Annette," exclaimed Averil, "will you not come to me and let me
wish you joy?" And as she warmly embraced her, Annette whispered, "Are
you glad, my cousin? Have I done well?"
"Very well indeed," returned Averil. But for a moment her heart was so
full that she could say no more. Evidently Frank understood her, for he
glanced proudly at his young betrothed.
"I am a lucky fellow, am I not, Averil? Ah, here comes Louie. I expect
my father is literally publishing it on the house-tops. Come with me,
Annette; let us go and meet her."
"So you have been and gone and done it, Frank," observed Louie, with
great solemnity; "and I have a new sister. Annette, I warned you before
that Frank was my own special brother; and now you will have to be fond
of me as well as him, for I don't mean to be left out in the cold." And
though Louie laughed, and spoke in her old merry way, the tears were
very near her eyes.
"But I do love you already," protested Annette, earnestly. "And it
makes me so happy to know that I, too, shall have brothers and sisters.
Mr. Frank will not have them all to himself any longer. They will be
mine, too. Is it not so?"--appealing to her lover; and of course Frank
indorsed this with delight.
What a happy evening that was at Grey-Mount House! Frank, who was
idolized by his brothers and sisters, found himself in the position
of a hero. The Harlands were simple, unworldly people. It never
entered their heads that the son and heir was not making a very grand
match in marrying a young orphan without a penny to call her own--a
little, sallow-faced girl who had once earned her living by mending
lace. To them "kind hearts were more than coronets, and simple faith
than Norman blood;" and they were wise enough to know that Annette's
sweet disposition and lowly virtues would keep, as well as gain, her
husband's heart.
It was very pretty to watch her, Averil thought, that evening. She took
her happiness so simply; she seemed so unconscious of herself. Her one
thought was to please her fiancé, and all those dear people who had
taken her into their hearts.
"You are very happy, Annette?" Averil said to her later on that night.
"But I need not ask; for your face is brightness itself."
"I think I am more than happy," returned Annette, with a deep sigh of
utter content. "Ah! if only my mother could know that I am to spend my
life with so good a man. Lottie has been trying to tease me. She will
have it that Mr. Chesterton is nicer--as though he could compare with
my Mr. Frank!" finished Annette, with a gesture of superb disdain.
"God has been very good to me," thought Averil, reverently, when
Annette had left her, and she sat alone in the moonlight. "How
different things were with me this time last year! Then I was troubled
about Rodney; my home-life was miserable; Annette was an unknown
stranger; even Lottie was a care to me. And now I trust, I hope, my boy
is beginning a new life; I am happier about Maud; my burdens are all
lifted, and if the future looks a little lonely, it will not be for
long--not for long--" She stopped and folded her hands, and a sweet,
solemn look came into her eyes. What if her work were nearly done? if
the weary, worn-out frame would soon be at rest? Would that be a matter
of regret? "When Thou wilt, and as Thou wilt," was the language of
her heart. Soon, very soon--yes, she knew that well--the tired child
would go home. And as this thought came to her in all its fullness, a
strange, mysterious joy--a look of unutterable peace--came on the pale
face. "Even so, Father," she whispered--and the dim summer night seemed
to herald the solemn words. "In my Father's house are many mansions:
if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for
you." "And for me--for me, too!" prayed Averil.
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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:
Numerous printer errors have been corrected. There were so many
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